Dreaming the Eagle (38 page)

The words throbbed through Breaca, carrying the air from her chest. ‘You are talking about Lanis?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘She didn’t walk with the joy of a woman who has seen her child grow in the dream.’

Airmid said, ‘She saw his death. It was not good.’ ‘On the orders of the Sun Hound?’

‘No. He died at the hand of a Roman and a warrior of the tribes and those who could have stopped it stood by and did nothing.’

Amminios, then. Neither Caradoc nor Togodubnos would do such a thing, whatever the circumstances.

Breaca leaned back into an embrace that carried no guilt. The hands that circled her waist knew her better than any, and the voice in her ear which asked presently, ‘You gave Caradoc your brooch?’

She nodded. It was not a time for speech.

‘Did he give anything in return?’

He had given his armband to Odras and she had given it back. He had nothing of like worth that he could have given Breaca, except his word, which was worth a great deal. ‘He said he would come back in the autumn, to speak for Ban at his longnights.’

‘Good. I’m glad.’ The hands moved from where they had been. ‘Do you want me to leave you?’

‘Do you want to go?’

‘No.’

‘Then, stay. Please.’

She had sworn to herself a long time ago that she would spend the last night alone. She was older now, and understood more of the world and her place in it, and an oath made privately, in anger, carried no weight. The night was cool but not cold and the wind softened as it coursed through the briar to brush feather-light across her skin. An otter took a fish from the river and carried it past them, still wet and garlanded with weed. Somewhere in the forest an owl hunted and a dog fox made a kill. Rain fell, but softly so that it did not penetrate the briar. These things came distantly, as facts in a dream while her mind and her soul were elsewhere. She remembered at the end not to weep.

Breaca dreamed of war. It was not surprising, but it meant that when she woke to shouts of alarm she did not respond as quickly as she might have done, believing herself still sleeping. She rolled over lazily, reaching for Airmid and not finding her. The memory of the coming day closed on her, bleakly. Without opening her eyes, she said, ‘What is it?’

‘Eburovic.’ Airmid stood at the edge of the briar, looking out towards the clearing where the remains of the night fire burned. ‘Get up. Quickly. We’re under attack.’

‘Did you dream it?’

‘No.’ There were shouts again from the river bank and a horse screamed in anger. Airmid spun back. ‘Where’s your blade?’

‘Here.’ She would not sleep without it, as her father lived always with his. She had never used it in anger, had never unsheathed it save for burnishing or, once, to offer it to Caradoc. Drawing it now, Breaca felt the difference as a song in her blood. The throb in her palm screamed as she reached for the hilt. It hurt less when she held it. Her shield hung by its shoulder strap from a stubbed branch of a beech nearby. The lower edge had touched the water as they swam the river and the red dye had run then dried overnight, fixing it so that the serpent bled across the haft of the spear. She settled her hand in the grip behind the boss and this, too, felt different.

Men shouted one to another at the river bank. She heard Ban’s voice shifting register again, starting high and finishing deep, and then Iccius’ shrill scream, cut off prematurely. Airmid was beside her. They ran through the hazels towards the noise. Breaca asked, ‘Who is it?’

‘Coritani. Who else?’

‘But this is the gods’ place.’

‘And your mother was giving birth, which is sacred. It didn’t stop them then, either.’

Airmid spat. She had forsaken the grey cloak of Mona and armed herself with blade and helmet. Of itself, it said she would not be taken alive as a slave. If they died, it would be together; a dreamer and her warrior. In adversity, there was some good.

They broke from cover into chaos. The enemy far outnumbered the Eceni. Their green and black striped cloaks blurred their outlines in the poor light of dawn. The mark of the red kite stood proud on their forearms, new, as if freshly done in the night. They made a half-circle, blocking the way to the river. The Eceni warriors stood in a knot before them, half naked and poorly armed. Eburovic was at the fore, shieldless, wielding the great shebear blade of the ancestors with both hands, cutting arcs in the air that kept the enemy back but would not do so if they built the courage to come at him together. ‘Tagos stood to his left, guarding his side in place of the shield. Sinochos stood before Macha and Dubornos kept fast to his flank. All bore blades and nothing else; their shields had been set by the fire to dry overnight and were out of reach.

Airmid spun on her heel. ‘They need their shields. I will get them.’

‘No! It’s too far. You’ll die before you’re halfway there. Stay with me. We need to get the horses.’

Their mounts milled on the river bank downstream of the ford, herded by one of the Coritani. Breaca whistled and the grey battle mare screamed an answer. She struck out at the man beside her. He fell and water ran red on the shingle. Another warrior grabbed for the mare’s halter and was knocked from his feet by her shoulder. He died underfoot. Warrior and battle mount met at the foot of a willow and the crash of blood, more powerful than the horsesweat, stung them both. Breaca whistled again and two other horses pushed through the trees. The herders stood back in fear and let them go.

‘Airmid, get the colt. And Ban’s red mare. They know how to fight.’

Breaca mounted and the height gave her a better view. Ban stood to the left of the others between an oak and a cluster of brambles. Iccius knelt at his feet, clutching a blade wound on one thigh. Three warriors closed on them, grinning. She kicked the mare forward. Two of the enemy died without honour, caught from behind by a blade that sang as it killed. The third looked to his left where a horse struck at his shoulder and did not see Ban’s blade as it swept through his throat. Blood sprayed in a fountain where he fell. Breaca shouted, ‘You have killed. I saw it. If we live, you’ve earned your spear.’

Ban grinned wildly and made the warrior’s salute. There was no time for more. Airmid was there with the red mare and the colt. Breaca shouted at whoever would hear. ‘Get Iccius mounted. He’ll die if he’s left on foot.’ They put him on the colt and he clung to the mane, weeping. Ban was up on his Thessalian cavalry mount. Breaca reached down and pulled Airmid up behind her on the grey.

A shadow moved at her left. She thrust out with her shield and drew back her blade for the swing. The red mare moved ahead of her and the enemy warrior died in a plash of blood and splintered bone. Ban shouted, exultant, and punched the air. His mare’s feet streamed blood. Breaca screamed at him, ‘Get the other horses. Bring them to the fire.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Fight!’

They wheeled and separated. Iccius followed her brother. As they parted, her last thought was that the Belgic boy was unarmed and would die.

Ban rode with fire in his heart, circling the encircling enemy. The red mare killed for him. In every way, she was the mount from his dreams, faster and more savage than he had dared hope. Lifeblood stained her teeth and crushed fragments of men clogged her hooves so that when she turned fast to catch a warrior who came at her shoulder she slipped and fell into him, and Ban, for once, had the chance to use his blade in defence of them both. The man swung at him, backhanded, and Ban had to duck. His mind held the impression of a wide grin and a single crooked eye-tooth. The image jarred, prodding at his memory as he grappled to hold his balance on the spinning mare. He put it aside and gave thought to fighting.

The enemy warrior was still off balance. His cloak fell away from his shoulder, exposing the blue edge of a mark drawn at the nape of his neck at the point where the collarbone met the great vein. Ban swung his blade backhanded, aiming for the blue line, but the grip slipped in his hand and he struck low on the shoulder and drew no blood. The man sneered as he might at a child and drew his own blade back for the killing blow. His attention was all on the strike; he never saw the snaking teeth that came forward and smashed the angled bones of his face so that the laughing grey eye split open like an egg and the roots of his teeth showed clean through the rent in his cheek. He fell backwards, bellowing, and the mare screamed with him, throwing herself forward. The crack of his ribs breaking underfoot was the sound of an axe splitting wet wood in winter.

Ban hauled the mare to a halt and hurled himself at the ground. The man lay flat on his back, clutching at his face. Blood pumped crazily from the wound on his chest and air bubbled through it, foaming. The mare came in to finish what she had started but Ban shouted her back. The enemy warrior lifted his head and gargled on blood. The noise was an animal one, of pain and death and inchoate terror. His guts had been caught by one of the murderous hooves and the smell of split lights was appalling. Ban ripped the brooch and the cloak from the warrior’s shoulders. There at the neck was the mark for which he had aimed; not the red kite of the Coritani, but the war eagle, wings flung high in the stoop and feet braced for the kill. It was an old sign, recently resurrected, with the oaths of the ancestors renewed and respoken, reworded for a man who favoured Rome. Ban had seen the sign often in the past days, had taken meals with men - only men; their leader did not take the oath from women - who bore it with pride, had played the Warrior’s Dance with their leader and won. These were Amminios’ men, he was sure of it. Memories of a broad smile and a single crooked tooth gave him a name that might go with one that lay at his feet.

‘Decanos?’

He was not sure. He could not be sure. A man’s face changes so much when he is dying. Ban laid a palm on a death-cold forehead and avoided the one good eye that searched for his. He had not seen death in battle before, had imagined more glory and less time taken dying. The reality curdled his guts, but he had no time to consider it. Already the black birds of Briga circled in the dream to carry the man’s soul to the river. Ban could feel the beat of their wings, hear the carrion call tear into his own soul with a promise for later. He shook the stiffening shoulder. ‘Decanos,’ he said, more urgently, ‘is it you?’

It was too late for speech but the amber eye held his and blinked twice before the white rolled up and was gone for ever. He felt the truth as a punch in the stomach and the duplicity of it swamped his reason. Standing, he slashed his blade across the lifeless throat.

‘Ban!’

Iccius called him, frantically. Men were running at him, all in the green and black striped cloaks of the Coritani. Ban hauled his blade clear and threw himself at the red mare, running with her for three strides before mounting. A hand caught at his tunic. He hacked down twice and severed two fingers before it let go. Free, he wheeled the mare in towards the centre of the clearing, calling Iccius to follow him. On the other side of the fire, Macha was down. Ban could see her black hair fanning the turf and the white of her face below it. A bubble of pain rose through him and was washed away, to be brought back later, when the gods gave more time. Further over, beside the smouldering remains of the fire, Breaca was fighting on foot, with Eburovic on one side and Airmid on the other. It was impossible not to feel awe at the sight of her. She blazed as a single point of fire amidst the carnage. Her hair burned like molten bronze. Her eyes gathered the rising sun and made it brighter. She killed with a wild precision and the ravens of death danced over her, singing.

Ban came to himself. ‘Breaca!’ He pitched his voice high and saw her glance in his direction. ‘They are the men of the war eagle -Amminios’ men. Trinovantes, not Coritani.’

His sister grimaced and raised an acknowledging arm, then gestured again towards the horses. The entire Eceni herd had been gathered together on the margins of the river. Three Trinovantian warriors were walking in on them, whip-handed, trying to drive them across to the Sun Hound’s territory. Not while he lived. He was Ban harehunter, warrior of the Eceni, brother to the serpent-spear, and he would die before they took his horses. Yelling his sister’s name as a battle cry, he spun the mare and kicked her on and they broke through the circle of enemy warriors as a spear through a straw target. At his side, Iccius clung to the dun colt as it fought its way through beside him. Ten strides and he was there.

‘Ban!’

The scream came from his left, where Iccius had been. He could not turn; an ageing warrior with white-streaked hair and the stealth of long practice had come at him from the right. The mare, unaccountably, had missed her killing stroke and it was left to Ban to save them both. It was the stuff of his daydreams: true combat, fought between heroes. He felt an absence at his side, like a gap in a wall that lets in the wind, and knew that Hail should have been there to make things perfect. Still, it was close enough. He raised a wordless yell of hope and fury and swung on the forehand at the white skin of the warrior’s throat.

‘Ban! Behind you. It’s a trap!’

The words reached him but made no sense. His blade bit clean air, pulling him off balance. The grizzled warrior grinned. Ban twisted his arm for the backswing. A shadow fell beyond his shoulder. Too late to turn, he saw it and delayed his swing. The blow to his head struck like lightning. The sun exploded and ushered in night, catching the pain and folding it in before he could cry out. The mare screamed for him, or maybe it was Iccius, and he felt himself fall. Somewhere, in another world, Amminios stood over him, laughing.

‘Breaca!’

She heard the shout distantly, filtering through the clash and chaos of battle. She was going to die; she was certain of that. It was the dream of her longnights all over again and she stood in the place of the ancestors, preparing to die with dignity and honour against insuperable odds. The war eagles were too many, too well armed, too well prepared, and the Eceni were none of those things.

Earlier, seeing the parallels, she had prayed to the elder grandmother, asking if there was anything she could do, any change she could effect that would make the sides more even. The only answer had been silence and that was enough to let her know that she neared the end and the best she could do was to die well when the time came. The knowledge of it brought a peace that swooped through her in the still moments between the fighting, when one man died and another had yet to take his place, or in the long spaces between heartbeats when the singing blade gave some respite and she and the enemy breathed.